


ink-colored glasses

by Ros3mary



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fae!Jaskier, Fluff and Angst, Geraskier Week, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:26:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22719139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ros3mary/pseuds/Ros3mary
Summary: Glimpses of Geralt and Jaskier’s lives with soulmarks as big as the witcher’s pride and the bard’s ego.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 821





	ink-colored glasses

**Author's Note:**

> i take liberties with the lore to help my plot & you can’t stop me
> 
> also happy valentine’s day/geraskier week loves!!
> 
> bother me on tumblr at marble-seafoam if you liked the fic :)

Geralt was one second old when he got his soulmark.

Just an instant after being born, his body burst into color. The nursemaids watched, entranced, as delicate depictions of flowers and vines swirled up his arms, across his chest, around his throat, covering every inch of him. The tips of his fingertips, even, were painted into pretty little pictures of buttercups. Whispers circulated instantly around the small town.

It took years for soulmarks to develop, and when they did, they showed a small fox, or a pie, something small. A mark this big, this young, it was unheard of. The townspeople spoke of sorcery to each other even as they congratulated Geralt’s mother, for a healthy baby, and his _potent_ soulmark.

Across the continent, Jaskier was one hundred and thirty two when he got his soulmark.

Not a soul, save for the trees of the forests, was there to witness the soulmark burst into brilliance on Jaskier’s body.

It was scars. They curled, finely, over his skin like spiderwebs, a painting of slices and bites, a tapestry of pain. They trailed sensations of lightening over the skin they rushed to kiss, making Jaskier shiver.

Jaskier’s tunic was hung and drying, so he got to watch as the scars twisted delicately over his chest and stomach, leaving an open, unmarred circle of skin over his heart. There, the elegant and noble head of a white wolf faded into color.

The fae nearly tripped in his haste to the creek, and when he scrambled to the mossy bank, he stared at his reflection until he cried, bubbling with laughter and running reverent fingers over the thin illusions of scars. 

For the first time in one hundred years, Jaskier _hoped._

Geralt was four years old, and his soulmark meant everything to him. He spent hours tracing the flowers up his arms, kissing his buttercup-tipped fingers, and he showed the flowers that covered every inch of his body save his face to every person he could.

The people in the village didn’t like his soulmark. They whispered of magic of unnatural sources, and they sneered when the four year old asked for names to his flowers.

“ _Lavender,_ ” They hissed, disgusted and secretly burning with envy, “ _and bluebells._ ” They scowled as the bright, happy child thanked them.

Jaskier was one hundred and thirty six years old, and he loved his soulmark with his everything. The wolf’s burning eyes of amber and gold smoldered in his dreams, and he spent every waking moment waxing poetic to any faerie who’d listen about how strong and brave his soulmate would be, for scars to represent them. 

The other fae didn’t like Jaskier’s soulmark. Even for a magical being, his was so extravagantly beautiful and unnatural, they envied it desperately, and hated him for being different. The timing was all wrong- “ _Human_ ,” they hissed and sneered -and the intense eyes of the wolf made their feathery wings itch and their pale skin break out in goosebumps. 

Geralt of Rivia was six years old, and he was alone.

Then he was found, then taken, then changed.

The mutations of a witcher burned so bad, the flowers from his fingertips to his elbow withered. They greyed and blackened, making them look dead.

Later, when he was alone, Geralt wept. Not for the pain, nor the changes to him, not even for the strange new sensations bombarding him. 

Geralt wept for the loss of his little buttercups. They’d always been his favorite.

Across the continent, Jaskier was one hundred and thirty eight when his skin, from his elbow to his fingertips, turned ink black. 

He stared, shocked, at the image of darkness. His soulmate was, what, six years old? What pain could alter them so bad that it would turn Jaskier’s skin black, centuries and miles away?

The other fae weren’t concerned for Jaskier’s soulmate; they were disgusted and enraged with the ink. 

They chased him away, out of their forests, and Jaskier was one hundred and thirty eight when he used glamour for the first time since training, making his beautiful feathered chocolate colored wings vanish, and his features look human. His eyes stayed the same brilliant, deep cornflower blue; he was reluctant to let that go. For good measure, Jaskier also, sadly, glamoured his soulmark away. He kept the white wolf head, but the ink and scars were swept clear.

For the first time in six years, Jaskier’s skin was smooth and unmarred. He loathed it. 

Jaskier was shunned by his fae brethren, so he hefted his lute, donned human clothing, and went off in search of adventure.

Over the the next seventy-eight years, which streamed past like wind, Geralt grew to love his soulmark more and more. The flowers that had withered during his training grew back twice as bright not long after they greyed, restoring his soulmark to it’s brilliancy.

He’d been all over the continent, and not once had he seen any other being with a soulmark like his. It made a childish, impishly prideful voice in his head cheer, and scream ‘ _My soulmate’s best!_ ’. 

He’d decided long, long ago, that he loved his soulmate with every inch of his being. He loved the person who painted flowers over his skin, despite the ugly in the world, and he ached deep in his chest for the person who’s soul was so beautiful it would make even Geralt’s skin the same. 

It had changed, over the years. It wasn’t a completely unheard of thing; sometimes, if your soulmate’s soul changed, your picture would change into what represented their soul better. The first mark never stayed, though, ever. Geralt’s marks stayed.

When he was sixteen, birds joined the flowers. Bluebirds, larks, all sorts of them. All songbirds. 

When Geralt was twenty-four, the lavenders and bluebells ranging from his shoulderblades to the small of his back melted away, and were replaced by the image of wings folded against his back, chocolate brown with flecks of cornflower blue. 

When he was thirty, the inside of his wrist to his palm turned into an array of musical notes. He had begged a musician to play it for him, and found a tune he’d never heard before, but it was beautiful. 

The most recent change, appearing when Geralt was fifty-two, were the splattering of hearts from behind his ears to his shoulders.

Whoever his soulmate was, they were _good._ To Geralt, “soulmate” was parallel with flowers and music and love, and beauty. 

Other people didn’t like his soulmark as much. He was sneered at and mocked, townspeople taunting about how witchers don’t have feelings, and viciously lamenting the poor fate of his soulmate. Some people just stared with jealousy, green with their envy. 

The strangest thing about Geralt’s soulmark by far was, when he was sixty-five, he found flowers growing in his hair. His soulmark stretched outward from his skin, bursting with its beauty, desperate for life, and now, Geralt’s hair was always braided with flowers, or a crown of them settled on the snow of his hair. Sometimes, when he sneezed too hard, petals tumbled off of his skin. 

Once, he’d fallen asleep while meditating and found vines had grown from his palms and connected him to the ground. It didn’t hurt when he cut himself free, and when the vines were severed from the ground, they fell from his skin, as well. After that, he’d taken care not to sleep on the bare ground, lest he turn into a tree or something. 

After he turned eighty, he decided his soulmate couldn’t possibly be human. After all, they’d been alive before him, and as he got older, the soulmark grew stronger. In humans, old age caused soulmarks to fade. In Geralt, his soulmark flourished with every year that passed. 

At eighty-four, Geralt still hadn’t found his soulmate. He wasn’t too stressed about it; after all, he’d already realized both he and his mate had decades, maybe centuries to find one another. He still longed to meet them, though. He was expecting someone with marks as... _unusual_ as his, though he hadn’t pretended to know himself well enough to think about what represented his soul. 

Since his expectations were so high, (and since his soulmate’s mark was hidden), he didn’t recognize his soulmate when they met.

Jaskier knew Geralt was his soulmate instantly. 

Upon seeing the man for the first time, Jaskier’s mark had burned, lightning under the glamour, stinging his skin oh so pleasantly. 

He’d crossed the tavern floor, cornflower eyes just taking in his soulmate. The white-haired man was wearing black almost head-to-toe, but it didn’t hide the roses that crawled up his pale throat, or the dandelions weaving around his fingers, and the only thing that could hide the flowers growing along the strands of his snow hair was a thick hood. 

He looked like the soulmate of a faerie, and a deep instinct within Jaskier burned and simmered with pride. _Mine,_ he’d thought, and glowed inside with the ferocity of it. 

Throughout the years, Jaskier’s mark had evolved, new pictures joining the scars like a collage. Every chance he got to be alone, Jaskier dropped the glamour, and he could (and had) whittle away hours just looking at his mark.

When he was one hundred and forty-three, two swords, of silver and steel, had crossed over his back. 

When he was one hundred and sixty-six, fireflies and golden coins appeared on his shoulders, trailing down his arms to his elbows. 

When Jaskier turned two hundred, the insides of his wrists gained a splattering of wildflowers, colors of the rainbow, resting primly on a background of vines and ferns. 

The most recent, and most unusual change, was the snow. When he was two hundred and four years old, Jaskier’s mark produced a small cloud underneath both ears, with snowflakes drifting down the sides of his neck to his shoulders. A palmful of his hair turned snow white, scattered throughout his shaggy brown head of it, and sometimes, when Jaskier was angry or sad, his mark burned ice cold and snowflakes fell from his hair like rain. 

Although he didn’t know exactly how long it had been happening for, or when it started, Jaskier was two hundred and seven when someone pointed out that extra shadows seemed to follow him, pooling around his feet and splashing like ink over his pale skin and clinging. After he noticed, it got bigger, and some nights the inky shadows that curled over his chest and weaved between his fingers (almost as if they were trying to hold his hand) nearly felt like a physical, comforting weight. 

His soulmate could be as dark as they wanted, with their fancy shadows and thin scars, but Jaskier took one look at the flowers on his wrist and the fireflies on his arms and knew his soulmate had a soft side, and he knew that he’d love all sides of his soulmate.

Geralt proved to be both the easiest and hardest person to love to ever exist. Jaskier fell in love with him quickly and deeply, taking one look at the nobility and emotions that the witcher stored deep inside him and tumbling head-over-heels into the thick of it. But Geralt was reserved, and standoffish, and a fucking asshole to boot.

Jaskier stuck around the witcher despite how often Geralt expressed he should leave, working up the courage to just tell him. 

After a little while, the faerie learned how to speak witcher, and to appreciate all the tiny ways that Geralt began to subtly say “I appreciate you.” It was very encouraging. 

Jaskier drifted in and out of Geralt’s company, feeling like he was asleep when away for too long, and he never talked about marks, or souls, or mates. Not even when he caught Geralt examining the picture of an elven lute that had sprawled over the back of his thigh, exact to Jaskier’s lute. Or when the flowers in Geralt’s hair refused to grow anything other than dandelions and buttercups for months on end. Or when glittering golden coins joined the flowers painting the pale skin from Geralt’s shoulders to his elbows. 

Geralt didn’t say anything, so Jaskier didn’t either.

(Not even when the image of two pitch black eyes appeared on Jaskier’s collarbones after witnessing Geralt’s witchery potion effects for the first time, or when an auburn colored horse appeared on his left ankle, or when he de-glamoured and found ice and snowflakes forming a delicate circlet atop his head.)

He was fine. Really. He was a coward, and ninety percent of his lifetime was hopelessly pining for someone that already belonged to him, but he was fine. 

Jaskier was too afraid to say anything, and Geralt was too thick to put two and two together, so nothing changed.

Geralt wasn’t a fool. He knew exactly why he couldn’t sleep. Three months ago, Jaskier and Geralt had parted ways again. Three days ago, Geralt had heard a bard that wasn’t his bard singing “Toss a Coin” and two songbirds had appeared in the nest of dandelions and buttercups that gardened the backs of his hands.

 _Songbirds_. _Buttercups_. His stupid lute and his stupid flowers and his stupid smile and Gods above, Geralt might be in _love_. 

It was dangerous to love a human. They were so fragile, and their lives so short compared to a witcher’s. Geralt couldn’t set himself up for such heartbreak, so he deeply repressed every memory of a smile Jaskier had bestowed him, hid his feelings under a smoldering pile of apathy, and pretended he couldn’t see the songbirds and flowers all over his body. 

But that didn’t stop his mind from spinning wildly around the topic late at night, his godsdamned emotions thick in his throat and making him too anxious to shut his eyes. 

Geralt was in love and he couldn’t _fucking sleep_.

It’s just his luck that that’s when Jaskier shows up, really. The bard prattles on about this and that, his voice touching Geralt’s ears like honey but his words are meaningless to him. For a few long, long seconds, Geralt imagined what it would look like if Jaskier was his soulmate. Neither of them had ever talked about their marks, not even when the beds they’d shared had been dusted with crushed petals upon awaking, so Geralt knew nothing about Jaskier’s soulmate. For all he knew, a little picture of a sun was over Jaskier’s heart, displaying the soft, happy, bright soulmate that the bard deserved. 

Were unrequited soulmarks even possible? It had to be. Jaskier had to be Geralt’s soulmate.

With a hard shake of the head, Geralt refocused, and plowed past Jaskier to cast out the net again.

Then the djinn business happened.

Jaskier looked so small and helpless, asleep in the sorceress’s bed, and it made Geralt’s heart ache something feirce.

“Is he going to live?” Geralt asked. His thoughts had barely strayed from a constant stream of ‘JaskierJaskierJaskier’ since he’d laid eyes on the bard, and focusing was something of a struggle.

Yennefer’s brow creased. She was holding her hands over Jaskier’s throat, eyes closed. “Interesting.” She said suddenly, opening her eyes. She looked down at Jaskier for a moment, then started shaking his shoulders, saying, “Wake up for a moment you doltish bard!”

“Hey!” Geralt took a few steps forward on instinct, protective over his- the bard. “You said not to wake him-,”

Jaskier woke with a soft, humming gasp sound, and focused wide cornflower eyes on Yennefer. 

“I need you to drop your glamour,” said the sorceress, “or I can’t help you.”

The bard’s eyes went impossibly wide. He peeked at Geralt, looking guilty and scared, then took a deep breath and nodded. 

Some of the tension in Jaskier’s body seemed to melt away as he _changed_. One moment, Geralt was looking at Jaskier, the bard, the poet, the human. The next, a faerie stretched out on Yennefer’s bed, chocolate colored wings spread out, covered in scars and images, pictures, color-

Jaskier peeked at Geralt, who’s face was dangerously blank, and the fae blanched. A couple of snowflakes drifted down from his hair and melted against the blankets, and the shadows nearby curled protectively around Jaskier’s sides. 

“Excellent. Goodnight!” Yennefer said, and with a wave of her hand, Jaskier’s eyes shuttered closed and he was asleep again. The sorceress turned violet eyes to Geralt. “He’ll live. Don’t worry.”

Geralt didn’t answer. He stepped up to the bedside, running a gentle hand over Jaskier’s feathery wings, and thinking about the ink ones on his own back.

“I’ll be outside,” Geralt finally said gruffly. 

Geralt lingered outside the castle, waiting. He was silent, at first petting Roach, then just sitting with his back against a tree and thinking.

Jaskier knew. He had to have known. _Why wouldn’t he tell me?_ Geralt thought. 

A sudden wave of understanding washed over Geralt. Of course Jaskier wouldn’t tell him. Jaskier’s soul had brushed broad, loving paint strokes of flowers and beauty over Geralt’s skin, and Geralt’s soul had blemished the faerie with scars and shadows. 

The witcher pulled his knees up to his chest. He’d never actually considered that he might not be good enough for his soulmate. Now that he knows it to be true, it sliced at his insides like a knife, his doubt and self-loathing thrashing wildly in his chest.

After around an hour, Roach nickered, and Geralt looked up, following her gaze to where Jaskier was walking towards him. 

It hit him like a kick to the chest, leaving him breathless. Jaskier would turn him down- politely, of course, explaining why they couldn’t be soulmates, why he couldn’t love Geralt. It almost made him miss when his biggest concern was Jaskier’s thought to be human life flickering away. 

Would it have been worse to have loved and then lost, or was it worse now that Geralt would never love at all?

Jaskier’s face was painfully blank as he got close. He hadn’t put the glamour back yet, and his wings shuffled behind him. “So.” Jaskier prompted, finally, after a terse silence. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt blurted. “I didn’t mean to find out your, ah, secret like this.”

“Secret?” Jaskier parroted. Geralt dragged his gaze away from the scars spiderwebbing Jaskier’s hands and looked at his face. He was surprised, and slightly intrigued, by the small circlet of ice and snow that ringed Jaskier’s chocolate hair. 

_Snow, huh?_ Geralt thought. _Is it because I have white hair, or because I’m cold?_ “The fae thing. The... soulmark thing.” He lowered his gaze, finding more interest in the songbirds on the back of his hands than the pity that would cross Jaskier’s face. “I understand why you hid it. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“I hid it because I was scared,” Jaskier admitted. Geralt’s head snapped up, amber-gold eyes intense as Jaskier sat down, comfortably crossed leg, across from the witcher. 

“Of- of me?” Geralt breathed, barely recognizing his own voice, for how small and pained it was.

Obviously hearing it as well, Jaskier shook his head wildly. Snowflakes drifted down from his hair. “No, you oaf, never of you. I was scared you’d leave me. You always say you don’t need anyone. I didn’t know if the same applied to the dumb bard that followed you around, and happened to be your soulmate.” He smiled wryly, and Geralt started a bit at the glint of fangs in his toothy smile. “The mark means everything.” He added, uncharacteristically shy and nervous.

“You didn’t hide it because you think a witcher would be a shitty soulmate?” Geralt asked. Jaskier’s hand drifted off his lap, towards the shadows pooling at his side, and they twined through his fingers. Vines had already connected Geralt to the forest floor, growing out from his hair like braids. What a pair they made. 

“Of course not. I love you.” Jaskier smiled, tentatively, hopefully. “I’m in love with you, actually. I hope that’s okay.”

“Okay?” Geralt mirrored, his voice an unintentional growl. His hand jerked out and closed around the front of Jaskier’s unbuttoned doublet, dragging the bard into his lap clumsily. “You stupid fucking songbird, you better be in love with me. I love you too much to let you go.”

The fae’s cornflower eyes went wide and teary, but before it could get sappier, Geralt melded their mouths together in a searing kiss. Flames erupted along every inch of his skin, and he could bet Jaskier felt the same rush of heat and desperation, as the bard moaned and scrambled to sit properly in Geralt’s lap, pushing him down to the ground. 

Jaskier tasted like honey, and the sweet smell of flowers around them made Geralt’s head spin. The fae’s wings stretched out around them, offering shade and privacy, and Geralt was choked up with his sudden headrush of love. He broke the kiss, in favor of burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, inhaling deeply the scent of him. 

Jaskier huffed, pulling back, then pressing Geralt into the ground. He peppered the witcher’s face with kisses, lips touching his nose, eyelids, all over, then nipped gently with his fangs at Geralt’s bottom lip. “Mine,” he murmured, sealing their lips together again in a kiss. 

“Mhm,” Geralt hummed, tangling his fingers in Jaskier’s messy hair and pulling him closer.

Geralt was ninety-two, and Jaskier was two hundred and twenty-four, and they finally found each other. 


End file.
